Page 9 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 9

Invitations

T he next morning, Victoria was getting ready for breakfast. Slowly, reluctantly, not prepared to go downstairs. Well, she was ready and quite hungry, but she wasn’t prepared to face him. If she just stayed in her room, she would prevent more… things from happening in the rooms of this house.

They seemed to be collecting those with alarming frequency. The dressing room ‘incident,’ the library ‘episode,’ and now the drawing room… ‘affair.’ She had counted. There were forty-five rooms in the house.

Victoria slammed her brush onto the vanity table, scowling at her reflection. She studied her face, finding her lips swollen. She touched them softly with her fingertips, dragging them over the sensitive skin. Her eyes fluttered as the memory of his lips on hers flooded her mind.

She yanked her hand away from her lips as if burned. Her breath hitched, her pulse skittering, and for one awful moment, she could still feel him. How warm his breath was, how possessive his grip, the way his body pressed against hers, the way hers melted into his.

“Victoria! For the love of God!”

She got up and paced the room, shaking her head as if that would be enough to dispel the effect last night had on her. It was fruitless. His touch was searing. He had branded her, made sure that she woke up and walked around with his fingers, his lips, and his breath imprinted on her.

“Victoria, listen to me.” She went back to the mirror, fixing her reflection with a glare. “This is Stephen Elkins, the most infuriating, arrogant, insufferable man in existence.”

Her reflection didn’t seem so convinced, flushed and bothered as she was.

“No,” she hissed. “I hate him.”

More like, I hate the way he makes me feel .

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, he did make her feel too much, too fast. As much as it would be convenient for her to assume that it was just her body reacting to his touch, to that rich, deep voice murmuring sinful things, to his enormous body caging her in, she knew the truth.

It was not just her body—though it very much was. It was more. He was meeting her challenges, matching her rhythm. He was right. Her ‘lovely’ disposition scared most proper gentlemen of the ton, her outspoken manners too much to handle. But not for Stephen. He could handle her just fine. He could handle her body, and he could handle her wit.

I need to handle myself right now!

Victoria took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to get hold of her rampant mind. It was a moment of weakness. That was all it was. Nothing more. He was angry and wanted to prove a point. And she was foolish enough to allow him to. It was done. Over.

With renewed determination, Victoria went downstairs for breakfast. She was not going to starve herself for something like that.

“I am happy that you resolved the whole thing in a civilized way.” Dorothy’s voice drifted from the dining room.

Victoria scoffed before she entered the room. What a blatant lie had he told his mother? She inhaled, steeled her heart, schooled her features, and entered.

“Good morning.” She smiled, keeping her eyes on Dorothy.

“My dear!” Dorothy was extremely happy.

In fact, Victoria knew that Dorothy was too happy. What exactly did Stephen tell her to make her so giddy this early in the morning?

She dared a glance at him. He had the newspaper in his hands but was looking at her. A scorching, intense look. The moment their eyes met, he looked down, suddenly too interested in whatever was written in the paper.

“I am so happy that you are getting along,” Dorothy gushed, patting Victoria’s hand.

Are we now?

Victoria threw him a side glance, but he was still engrossed in his paper—or at least pretending to be.

“How nice of Stephen to help you secure a husband, right?”

Victoria clenched the napkin she was adjusting in her lap. All she could do was smile at Dorothy, blinking far too many times to keep her cheeks from flushing. So, she decided to concentrate on other things, small details if only to save her sanity this morning. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the way it glinted off the silver teapot, the feel of the hot tea in her mouth, yet not as hot as his tongue?—

Oh, for God’s sake.

She stole another glance at him to see if he too was miserable. He seemed fixated on the same page, his knuckles white while gripping the paper too hard, and a muscle was ticking in his jaw.

Good. I am not the only one suffering here.

So, to sum it up, if she were to make one of her beloved lists, this was what was happening at the breakfast table:

- Stephen was certainly not reading that newspaper

- Victoria’s cheeks were not overheated by the tea

- No one was listening to what Dorothy was saying.

- Last night definitely happened.

Victoria decided that the best course of action was to attack the eggs on her plate. If she survived breakfast, she would be safe till dinner at least. He would go and lock himself up in his study for the whole day, or so she hoped.

“This is great news.” Dorothy was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, how very kind of His Grace,” Victoria said, her voice sickly sweet.

Stephen finally decided to turn a page, making an exaggerated rustling sound as if the financial reports were fascinating. Victoria had the urge to feed him that newspaper instead of the apple pie on his plate.

“I have a great idea!” Dorothy clapped her hands suddenly.

Victoria seriously doubted that, and by the look Stephen gave his mother over his newspaper, he had the same thought as well.

“A house party!”

It is tiresome to be correct all the time .

“A house party?” Victoria managed to muster another fake smile.

“But it is an excellent opportunity. Annabelle won’t be able to travel once she gets heavier, and if Frederick invites a few of his friends, then you might meet some suitable gentlemen.”

For some reason, Victoria and Stephen exchanged an undecipherable glance before focusing on Dorothy.

“Mother, I do not think the house is ready to receive guests,” Stephen said in a clipped tone.

“Nonsense.” Dorothy waved a dismissive hand. “I have faith in our staff, and we will be ready in time. Right, Victoria?”

Victoria dared another glance at Stephen, who was giving her a look that said, Do not even dare. The newspaper in his hands had gone utterly still, his fingers rigid around the edges. The muscle in his jaw ticked again, a telltale sign of his fraying patience.

“Dorothy,” Victoria responded with a saccharine smile, “what a wonderful idea!”

Stephen’s nostrils flared. A sharp inhale of what could only be interpreted as exasperation.

This is just delicious.

“Perfect!” Dorothy was beside herself with joy. “Let’s start preparing the invitations.”

Victoria took a slow sip of her tea, looking at him over her cup. His jaw clenched so hard that she half-expected to hear his teeth crack. His eyes darkened in an open threat. She shivered.

He had warned her not to test him, and here she was, testing him. Pushing his limits. Deliberately.

The realization drizzled on her like dark honey.

What was this? Was she doing this just to vex him? Or did she want him to make good on his threat?

The question coiled low in her stomach, tightening her fingers around the cup.

“Come on, let’s write to Annabelle.” Dorothy got up to head for the drawing room.

* * *

The scratching of Victoria’s quill filled the drawing room. Sunlight shone on the writing desk, illuminating the cream-colored stationery with its embossed Colborne crest.

“Dearest Annabelle,” Victoria read aloud as she wrote.

“She is the Duchess of Heartwick,” Stephen commented. “That is not the proper way to address her.”

“You do not expect me to address her as Your Grace in private correspondence, do you?” Victoria bit out. “She also happens to be Dorothy’s daughter, your sister, and my best friend.”

“I am painfully reminded of the latter daily.”

“All the more reason for me to love your sister, then. She has impeccable taste,” Victoria jibed.

“In general, yes,” Stephen hissed. “In people, not so much.”

Victoria decided to ignore him and keep on writing.

“ Dearest Annabelle ,” she emphasized. “Your mother has devised the most delightful scheme.”

“I did exactly that,” Dorothy commented, raising her head over linen fabric samples.

“You will not write that, of course!” Stephen protested.

“I am sure there is a ton of work to be done in your study, Your Grace,” Victoria huffed. “You do not need to bother yourself with such menial tasks.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I am trying to save myself from a bludgeoning headache by simply writing a letter to my best friend. A feat I have successfully achieved before, whether you believe it or not.”

“That’s my crest you’re defacing with your childish scrawl.”

“I am inviting your sister to your house! How is that defacing?”

“Gold or blue?” Dorothy asked amid the chaos, holding up ribbons.

“Gold!” both said.

“See, you can agree on something,” Dorothy mused.

* * *

The next few days were a whirlwind of preparations, and in the middle of it all stood Victoria. The house had been closed for years and hadn’t received guests, so there was a lot to be done and many unforeseeable problems that arose constantly. Yet, she handled them all with grace. And not only that but also with a smile on her face.

Dorothy, who had spent years moving through the house like a ghost, now glowed with excitement. And that was all Victoria needed to get more energy to make her friend happy. As happy as she deserved.

“Mrs. Charlotte, make sure there is a fire burning in the rooms two days before the guests arrive. The rooms had been closed for so long—they need to be warmed up and not humid.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“Daniel,” Victoria called to a footman, “make the rounds with the oil can. Door hinges and check the windows, please. Let’s make sure no one wakes up to squeaky noises in the middle of the night.”

Daniel smiled and went to do as she asked.

“My Lady, the roses won’t be here in time,” the old gardener said, ready to faint.

“Certainly, a reason to call the whole thing off!” she joked. “Don’t you worry, John. The wildflowers look so much better anyway.”

Then, she went to check the pantry and supplies with a notebook in hand, making calculations offhand, remembering every little detail effortlessly. She moved with natural grace, directing footmen, smoothing feathers, and solving problems before they’d arisen. The staff, initially wary of the sharp-tongued woman taking the lead on this endeavor, now watched her with something akin to awe.

“Victoria.” Dorothy patted her hand as they debated over menus. “Did I ever thank you?”

“Daily. I am thinking of adding it to the program, actually.”

The two of them laughed, enjoying what could have been a very taxing, boring, and stressful process. Victoria was overjoyed. She can give her good friend this—make her some amazing memories and bring back the woman she was.

And throughout it all, over every little thing, Victoria could sense him .

He was watching. Not in an obvious way, but he was there, standing in the room as she gave instructions, glancing at the notebook as she made budget calculations. For sure, he was monitoring her, making sure all was done ‘properly.’ It annoyed her.

Victoria finally decided to confront him. She was in the butler’s pantry, her trusted notebook on the table, when a shadow fell over the pages.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked firmly.

“You’ve transposed these figures,” Stephen said, pointing to a line near the bottom.

“I did not do?—”

Her eyes followed the numbers, and she caught the mistake. Great, now he would make fun of her, and he was going to make some comment about how she would bring ruin to his respectable house, that she’d better?—

“That’s the only mistake you made.”

Wait. That tone…

Victoria could have sworn that she detected a hint of admiration in his simple—but very true—comment.

“You are good with numbers,” he said, looking shocked himself.

“I am,” she affirmed.

“And you’ve managed the cook exceptionally well.” Stephen took a little step closer. “He is known to be… difficult.”

“I wonder who chose him to be part of the staff.”

Victoria knew very well that the cook was Stephen’s personal choice. Dorothy had told her that Stephen was a very picky eater.

He scoffed and smirked, his chin dropping as he kept his eyes on hers.

Oh, that look is dangerous.

“Anyway…” Victoria swallowed. “I gave him full control of the desserts. The rest was easy.”

“Managed a man with something sweet,” he mused.

His tone, that low purr, did things to her that she couldn’t understand. Her breath caught mid-inhalation, freezing her for one treacherous moment.

“My Lady, which china for breakfast?” Mrs. Charlotte suddenly called from the china cabinet.

“Excuse me.” Victoria left the pantry as fast as she could.